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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24354937">serial number 27876 (astro's armguard will remain firmly in place, thank you very much)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cataclysm_of_the_masses/pseuds/cataclysm_of_the_masses'>cataclysm_of_the_masses</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Masked Singer (US TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>How Do I Tag, M/M, Self-Harm</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:14:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,372</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24354937</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cataclysm_of_the_masses/pseuds/cataclysm_of_the_masses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, Turtle finds himself at a loss for words.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Astronaut (The Masked Singer US)/Turtle (The Masked Singer US)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>serial number 27876 (astro's armguard will remain firmly in place, thank you very much)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>More Astroturtle for the soul!</p><p>NOTE: Trigger warning here for self-harm. If you're disturbed or triggered by it, please don't read this.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Turtle rolls his shoulders, standing from the couch. He flicks the television screen off, humming to himself quietly. A glance at the clock confirmed that it was eleven-thirty at night. Astronaut had gone to bed a few minutes before, leaving him to clean up. He grabs the two mugs of hot cocoa, frowning slightly as he feels how much heavier Astro's was - looking into the mug affirms his suspicion that it had been barely touched.</p><p>Well, if Astro didn't want it, Turtle would just have to finish it himself.</p><p>He pulls up the stopwatch on his phone, then hits go, chugging down the mug. Slamming it on the countertop, he grins, wiping his beak. Six seconds twenty.</p><p>Turtle puts the two mugs into the sink, idly wondering what had happened to the still-missing knife that completed the set in the block. Making a mental note to ask Rabbit about it, he clicks his phone off, heading upstairs. He pauses in front of the bathroom, noting that the light was on from the crack under the closed door, and heads to his room. Might as well slip into something more comfortable while he waited.</p><p>
  <strike> Turtle ignores the gnawing worry in the pit of his stomach - Astro normally took far less time. Then again, he also normally went second, so perhaps Turtle was just being imperceptive as always. </strike>
</p><p>He hums to himself, looking in the mirror - the black spikes forming a sort of mohawk of hair still stick up straight. Turtle had learned the hard way (what Fox called the Rabbit Way) that no amount of hair gel could keep the style down (and he tried, he really did), so he just lets it stand. He figures that it adds to his already eccentric character.</p><p>The clock hits eleven-forty-five. Still no telltale shuffling of metal boots to notify him that Astro had finished. Turtle rubs an eye, yawning. Perhaps he'd merely forgotten in which cabinet the towels were?</p><p>He should go check, in either case.</p><p>Turtle stands, the mattress creaking slightly as it springs back. He opens his bedroom door, pacing down the hallway to the bathroom -</p><p>A muffled sob cuts all of Turtle's thoughts short, stabbing him in the chest with its sheer desperation.</p><p>"Astro?" he asks quietly, pressing up against the door.</p><p>"G- go <em> away," </em> emanates the reply from inside. Its acrid tone twists and shatters something deep inside Turtle - what had happened that got Astro so upset?</p><p>
  <strike> The gnawing worry grows, and Turtle keeps trying to ignore it. It seeps into the corners of his mind when he isn't focused on making it not exist, and it's mere seconds before he's standing not through any volition of his own, but merely because he's scared that something's so, so wrong. </strike>
</p><p>"Astro?" he repeats, quieter. "What's going on?"</p><p>Turtle hears his heart pounding in his throat at the pause before the reply. "Nothing," Astronaut mumbles. "Just - "</p><p>He goes silent - there's an awkward shifting of metal on metal. Searching for an excuse, but one never comes.</p><p>"Can I come in?" Turtle murmurs against the doorframe. No response.</p><p>They stay like that a minute. Turtle tests the doorknob. It's locked.</p><p>"Astro, can you open the door?" he asks, still barely above a whisper. "Did you lock yourself in?"</p><p>He hears a gasping noise from inside. Then, an unsettling <em> clank </em> of metal hitting the tiled wall. Turtle twists the handle again, his worry spiraling out of control into full-out panic. Still locked.</p><p>"Astro!" he calls again, not even sure if the other can hear him - he takes a shaky inhale, stepping back.</p><p>The door needs to open, how does he open the door -</p><p>He paces to the other side of the hallway, turns around, and then runs backwards into the door, ramming it around the lock with his shell. The shell's spikes groan as the wood of the door splinters. Turtle rocks forward, then slams into it one, then two more times. The lock cracks open, and he swings open the door.</p><p>
  <em> "Astro!" </em>
</p><p>
  <strike> The gnawing worry laughs at him from the back of his mind, asking him how he'd get someone to repair the damage and didn't he have the privacy key on the ledge above the bathroom door? Turtle tells it to go fuck itself. It doesn't, of course. </strike>
</p><p>He inhales sharply, leaning on the frame of the door, taking in the scene with wide eyes. <em> Oh God... </em></p><p>Astronaut had passed out sitting on the rim of the tub, slumping against the wall. The economy-sized bottle of antiseptic next to him is half-empty, and Turtle knows for a fact that he'd bought it yesterday. Just behind the antiseptic, a bloody knife, looking suspiciously like the missing one from the knife block downstairs, lies on the floor.</p><p>He cautiously circles to where he's in front of Astro and immediately wishes he didn't. He'd apparently taken part of his spacesuit off. A large flap of skin was mostly sliced out of his right forearm, hanging on by one half of a short side of the rectangle that seemed to be being made. The wound exposes the muscle and even a sliver of bone underneath, with blood pouring out of the entire mess, creating a sickening pool on the floor along with the contents of half the antiseptic bottle.</p><p><em> "Holy fucking shit," </em> Turtle exhales, blinking once, then twice.</p><p><em> What the fuck was Astro thinking? Is this a recurring thing? Why didn't he tell me? Does he not trust me? </em> <strike> <em> Well, of course he doesn't, he doesn't trust me to stay at home alone half the time. Pathetic. You're not good enough for him. </em> </strike></p><p>If not for the adrenaline coursing through his system, Turtle would have collapsed - his knees still shake, a testament to how weak he feels. <strike> How weak he <em> is.</em></strike>  With trembling fingers, he yanks his phone out of his pocket, scrolling through his contacts until he finds Swan's profile picture. He hits call through the blur of the tears in his eyes, pressing the device to the side of his head as he stoops next to Astro. One ring. Two. Three.</p><p>"Hello?" Swan's voice sounds annoyed at the call.</p><p>"Thank God," Turtle pants into the phone.</p><p>"Where are you this time," Swan mutters, "And what did you do?"</p><p>"It's not me!" he defends, trying to press the flap of skin back to where it belonged. Turtle's eyes widen at the numbers etched in black ink on the flap and the pale scarring of knife marks through them. <em> 27876. </em> What the fuck did <em> that </em> mean? He'd have to ask Astro when he woke up.</p><p>"Rabbit?" Swan snarks through the line.</p><p>"No!" Turtle asserts again. "It's Astro - "</p><p>She gasps, now sharing his panic. "Where are you?" From the other end, he can hear her scrambling to grab her medical supplies, then a slam as she throws open a door, running down a set of stairs.</p><p>"Upstairs bathroom. Door's unlocked. What should I do?"</p><p>Swan sighs, opening another door from what it sounds like. "What are we talking about? Did you stab him with your shell or something?"</p><p>Turtle exhales shakily into the receiver. "I'm not <em> that </em> stupid!" he yelps. "No, no, he's - he's bleeding, he's bleeding a lot, he was trying to - I think he was trying to cut part of his arm off, there's so much blood..."</p><p>An engine revs to life from the other side of the line. "Talk to me!" Swan yells, securing her helmet. "Keep applying pressure on the wound!"</p><p>Turtle blubbers out a few stories about Astronaut - the day they met, the time they went to the museum and Astro had done a better job than their tour guide, how he'd spoiled Star Wars by giving Turtle a presentation (complete with illustrations) on how space flight worked... Before he knows it, Swan's running up the stairs and into the tiny bathroom, taking Turtle's place. She calls for an ambulance, and the last thing he remembers is walking downstairs with gelatinized legs to collapse in the back of the emergency vehicle, watching on as Swan tends to Astro's wounds.</p><p>Turtle wakes up, shifting in the hard plastic chair - a chair? The recollections of last night crash down onto him, and he jumps up, wincing as he feels how sore his back is. Astronaut's lying atop the hospital bed, his arm swathed in bandages, and he's dozing.</p><p>Swan knocks on the door with a slight smile, then enters - she, too, looks haggard, feathers ruffled from a long night. Turtle looks to her quietly, a single question on his mind. She anticipates it. "He's going to be okay."</p><p>Turtle collapses back onto the chair in relief, then wishes he didn't as his spine groans in agony. "When will he wake up?"</p><p>Swan shrugs. "He might be up soon, or it might take a few days. You should go home and get - "</p><p>He barks out a tired laugh at that. She knows not to push it, instead simply tossing half a sandwich at him before leaving.</p><p>Turtle can't bring himself to eat it.</p><p>Questions swarm through his mind as he looks to Astro's helmet again. The hospital workers had clicked the visor up, despite Turtle faintly recalling himself complaining vocally about it. His eyes were closed, and faint rims of red under them added a single touch of life to his otherwise pale and otherworldly face.</p><p><em> Why? </em> The syllable rattles through his worry-addled mind as he feels himself drifting off again. <strike> At least when he was sleeping, he couldn't disappoint Astro. </strike></p><p>It's two days of living in that plastic seat, watching Astronaut sleep, before he spots it - Astro twitches his fingers. Movement.</p><p>"Astro?" Turtle asks, immediately on his feet.</p><p>He opens a bleary eye. "Huh? T-Turtle?"</p><p>"Thank God you're alive," he sighs, relieved. "What - "</p><p>"I'm tired," Astro mumbles, flexing his fingers again.</p><p>"You were <em> just </em> asleep!" Turtle exclaims, crossing his arms.</p><p>"Tired," he repeats, closing the eye and slipping off. Turtle curses quietly, falling back onto his chair.</p><p>He wakes again, later, this time to something shaking his arm. "You should eat."</p><p>Turtle's eyes open. He sighs, looking at Astro's golden glove and its firm grip on his jacket. "I'm not the one who almost <em> died," </em> he retorts - then takes it back as he sees Astro blink, a cloud falling over his eyes. "Look, I - "</p><p>"I'm an idiot, I know," Astronaut exhales, glancing off to the side. "Try harder."</p><p>"What?" Turtle raises his brow, taken aback.</p><p>"Try <em> harder," </em> he shrugs.</p><p>Turtle shakes his head. "What do you want me to do? Yell at you or something?"</p><p>"That's what you're supposed to do, right?" Astro asks, quizzical.</p><p>Right there, Turtle feels his heart shatter into a million tiny pieces, littering the floor with glass shards. A pause - he catches his breath. "I'm supposed to <em> what?" </em></p><p>"You're keeping me alive for a reason," Astro looks at him. "Get on with it."</p><p>"With <em> what?" </em> he echoes.</p><p>"The punishment?"</p><p>"What the <em> fuck?" </em> Turtle rocks back in his chair, putting his head in his hands and resting his elbows on his knees, bracing for an impact he knows is coming. "Why would I - oh my God, Astro, what the fuck? I'm glad you're <em> alive! </em> Why would I - "</p><p>Astronaut shrugs, watching the IV stuck into his arm with half-lidded eyes. "Diverting resources," he offers.</p><p>"What?" Turtle exhales. "Who the fuck - <em> what?" </em></p><p>Astro's gaze flickers away, off to the distance - he says nothing. They sit there like that for a few minutes.</p><p>"What do the numbers mean?" Turtle asks, breaking the fragile ice again. He bites his tongue, scared at how this will turn out.</p><p>Astro looks back. "Serial number."</p><p>He blinks a few times, not quite understanding. "Huh?"</p><p>"Everyone gets one," he shrugs. "It's nothing special. Why don't you guys have them? I wondered that for a while, you know."</p><p>Turtle feels the wind getting knocked out of him. "What the fuck?" is all he can reply with.</p><p>Astro sighs, as if he's explaining this apparently simple concept to a young, hyperactive child. "I'm number twenty-seven thousand, eight-hundred and seventy-six. So there were twenty-seven thousand, eight-hundred and seventy-five cadets before me. Right?"</p><p>Turtle looks at him with a facial expression that can only be described as the words he repeats once again. <em> "What the fuck?" </em></p><p>"Is it that complicated?" Astronaut asks, brow furrowed.</p><p>He drops his head, looking down at the still-unopened half-sandwich. A pause. "That's not - " He trips over his words, falling into a stunned silence.</p><p>Astro looks back at the bandages covering the numbers on his arm and the scarring criss-crossing up and down them. "How it's supposed to work, I get it," he mutters dryly, picking at the end of the gauze. "But I can't get <em> rid </em> of it. You won't <em> let </em> me."</p><p>Turtle inhales slowly, calmly reaching over to pull Astro's arm away from the healing wound. "Why?" he asks.</p><p>"Why what?"</p><p>"Why would you - "</p><p>"I don't want to be that anymore."</p><p>Turtle shakes his head. "That doesn't justify fucking <em> tearing a hole into your arm!" </em> he points out, oblivious to how he's tearing up.</p><p>Astro pauses. "...I knew you wouldn't understand," he mutters.</p><p>Before either can say anything else, Turtle's draped himself half-onto the bed, engulfing Astro in one of the most awkward hugs to ever exist.</p><p>"You're <em> not </em> a fucking <em> number," </em> he sighs, gritting his teeth as he feels Astronaut tremble in his grip. "You never were. Fuck that twenty-seven thousand shit. You're so much more than that and you <em> know it." </em></p><p>After a long moment, a metal arm reaches up to nestle between the spikes of Turtle's shell. He hears Astro sobbing again, and tries to stay strong himself.</p><p>Judging by the wetness on his cheeks, he was doing a terrible job at it.</p><p>That was okay, though.</p><p>Well, no, nothing really was okay - Turtle wanted to find whoever'd hurt his little nugget and fuck them up so bad that even their DNA wouldn't be identifiable. But for now, he just wanted to make sure Astro knew how much people cared about him. How much <em> Turtle </em> cared.</p><p>
  <strike> <em> You're not enough, </em> the gnawing worry whispers, and Turtle chooses to ignore it. He needed to be. </strike>
</p><p>For Astro, he would be anything. And hopefully, that would be enough.</p>
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